_Week ending 2nd December, 1899_
Three and three make six weeks. We were not yet free--not quite. Our
period was doubled. The wary seers who "told us so" had triumphed; and
they exploited their intuition for what it was worth, or rather for a
great deal more, since clearly it was not worth much. They had triumphed
(by a short head, so to speak), or said they had. What matter. They were
minor prophets; and the nearness of Methuen and his Column enabled us to
bear the trumpet-blowing with equanimity and good humour. The monster
head-lines of the _Advertiser_--delightful paper!--proclaimed it "the
last week of the siege!" It was placarded on the walls. The newsboys
shrieked it abroad. The man in the street confirmed it. The populace
believed it. The grocer beamed, and the haberdasher made bold definitely
to state the date on which a particular reel of cotton could be
purchased. It even stimulated the hotel-keepers to discover hidden
spirits. The last week of the siege! how comforting it sounded; and what
potent influence it possessed to soothe temperaments unadaptable to
siege life.
The funerals of the brave men who had fought their last fight on
Saturday took place in the afternoon. A funeral is a mournful thing
always; but here were six young men, cut down in the heyday of their
lives, being conveyed to their last resting-place. Most of them had
been esteemed citizens of the town in defence of which they died. It was
this, the circumstances under which they fell, the feeling that it was
for the preservation of the homes of the people they had given up their
lives, that evoked so much sympathy and sorrow. Thousands of mourners
attended to pay the fast tribute of respect to the dead. The various
sections of the Town Guard in processional order followed the coffins to
the cemetery.
Many things occurred in the course of the day to enhance our
satisfaction with the prospect of emancipation. At eleven o'clock an
alarm was sounded, and the services in the churches were in consequence
cut short. The half of the Town Guard enjoying their day off had their
relaxation cut short, too--unnecessarily, as it turned out. Fifty or
sixty Boers were prowling about, a powerful glass enabled the zealous
look-out to explain. It was a mere storm in a teacup, not by any means
the first that had raged in that fragile utensil. This capped all past
tempests, and made the men who had been off duty exceedingly angry, and
the men who were on, exceedingly gay. Mafeking, however, was fighting on
still; and many Boers had been killed in Natal. The
_piece-de-resistance_ was the last to come. It concerned our own Relief
Column, whose progress the enemy had had the temerity to impede at
Belmont. How their hardihood had been rewarded with "cold steel"; how
they had quailed before it; how they had fled before the conquering
Methuen: these and other details, in all their charming vagueness, were
received with rapture. It was fine news; and wounded men in the
hospital, about to die, changed their minds and lived when they heard
it.
We had a visitor--an emissary from the Boers--on Sunday. And though he
turned out to be a Scotchman!--so brimful of hope and good humour were
we that the circumstance detracted little from the cordiality of his
reception. He was a doctor, the doctor whose services had been
commandeered by the practical Boer. Some of us felt disposed to doubt
his nationality; but the gentleman talked Scotch--that is,
English--dialectically and broad; and when he shook hands familiarly
with a few local members of his profession, the sceptics were silenced.
Show me your company, etc., did not apply. The main point, however, was,
his business. What did he want? He wanted medicines, surgical
instruments, and things--a request which occasioned much
shoulder-shrugging _apropos_ of the medico's "nerve." That he served the
Boers in his professional capacity _only_, was evidenced by the candour
with which he opened his heart when queried as to the fortunes of the
family who had taken a loan of him. He admitted a loss of one hundred
killed and wounded Boers in the recent fight. This was rather higher
than our own estimate--and we were not given to minimise on the _wrong_
side. It was wonderful. Whether the learned doctor exaggerated--but why
should he (a Scot) in such a case?--unless indeed the canny one desired
to please and make sure of his medicines. Anyhow he got his medicines
(including a personal prescription, from his "ain country"), and with a
bow of gratitude departed.
The _Diamond Fields' Advertiser_ was quite readable on Monday. It
contained news, and less of the fiction (culled from old magazines)
with which it had been regaling us for weeks. On Monday we read of
modern London, and of transports, fights, etc. (in the present war). We
were engrossed in the news when the Boer guns began to play. Three shots
were fired, and we had to admire the impudence of an enemy who acted as
if the coming Column gave him no concern. The missiles hit nobody,
although one was facetiously alleged to have winged a locust. These
insects swarmed the land--it was difficult to avoid hitting them--and
one was not missed. We got more shells in the afternoon, but they did no
harm whatsoever.
The predominant and all-absorbing subject of discussion was the Column,
its coming, its movements generally. We felt a little disappointed at
the delays which the opposition it had encountered rendered unavoidable.
But we were not despondent, nor hyper-critical--not yet. The
bombardments might be written down a fiasco, and what after all did it
matter whether relief came to-morrow, or not till the day following.
Still, these delays upset plans and calculations. They upset bets and
wagers, and the "bad losers" who villified both Briton and Boer with
delightful impartiality. They upset diary-writers--prospective meteors
in the firmaments of literature--and they upset the magnates of the De
Beers Corporation, whose annual meeting had been fixed for that day. The
meeting had to be postponed until Thursday, in order that the dividend
declared might immediately be cabled, in accordance with custom, to the
shareholders throughout the world. The wires were bound to be in
flashing order by Thursday. It was re-assuring to find oneself in
agreement on that head with a rock of common sense like Mr. Cecil
Rhodes.
Ten more shells were pitched at us on Tuesday, only one of which reached
its destination; the other nine went off at a tangent somewhere else, to
the chagrin of curio company promoters. It would have been more tactful
of the Boers, we thought, to have reserved their ammunition for a more
aggressive foe. No great attention, however, was paid to their
extravagances, and from anything in the nature of repartee we refrained.
There was more serious work in hand; preparations were going on apace to
open up an avenue for the Relief Column. The Town Guard were ready; the
Light Horse, the Imperial troops, and the armoured train were also to
the fore. This formidable combination was soon on its way to the
Schmidt's Drift Road, where it found shelter behind some friendly
ridges. The Boers occupied Spitzkop and were looking across at us with
curiosity--not unmingled with uneasiness, we felt sure. They maintained
a rigid silence, and made no attempt to interfere with our arrangements
until the armoured train came into view. The ridges we occupied were
afterwards shelled, and the _Diamond Fields' Artillery_ responded. While
this not too bloody duel was in progress, a body of mounted men had
received instructions to take up a position away to the right of
Spitzkop.
It grew dark eventually, and we decided, or rather got orders, to remain
where we were for the night. Given a choice we would have done nothing
of the sort; it was chilly weather outside canvas; we had not come
prepared for a bivouac, and we had no great coats nor blankets. But they
were subsequently sent out to us. To satisfy the pangs of hunger, which
were asserting themselves with increasing importunity, we tried
(advisedly) the pockets of the coats, and there found the goods
required. There were belated "Guards" who got blankets _only_. How they
fared is not recorded, but I believe they asked for more! The firing had
by this time ceased on both sides; but the impression was that it would
be resumed early next morning; that a battle was imminent, and a sleep
desirable but not at all imminent. Our "beds" were too strange and cold
for sleep--as in the case of peaceful people when travel necessitates a
departure from feathers to planks of straw. We watched the play of the
searchlight, and were interested observers of a responsive gleam from
Modder River. The Column was there for a certainty. We had been
listening all day to the booming of guns, but had yet no idea that it
was connected with the battle of Modder River. Ultimately we ceased
chattering, and charmed _Morpheus_ at last--all unconscious of the sad
morrow.
For a sad morrow it was. The most tragic day of the siege! A rumour ran
riot that Scott-Turner had been killed; but the people _would not_
believe it. Colonel Scott-Turner dead! It was hard to convince the
populace of the fate of the gallant Colonel; harder still to inculcate
that over with him to the great majority had passed twenty-four of his
followers. But so it was. Of the survivors thirty were wounded!
Some seventy or eighty mounted men had attacked the Boers in possession
of Carter's Farm (which had been re-taken), and had carried the Farm in
the face of a withering fire from the enemy--who fell back upon a
stronger position. Nothing daunted, our men brought up their guns and
prepared to repeat their success. The Boers resisted fiercely, but were
eventually driven back to a third line of defence. Night was rapidly
descending, but this notwithstanding, the Light Horse were ordered to
complete their victory. It was in this last rush that their daring
leader was struck down. The third position was actually taken; but the
disappearance of the light rather handicapped the gunners. The enemy was
re-inforced, and the remnants of the Light Horse were obliged to
evacuate the ground that had cost them so much.
These are the bare facts of the affair--the facts which came to light.
Contradictory opinions as to whether there had been a blunder were
freely expressed. On the conflicting theories advanced I refrain from
commenting. It did not, for the moment, concern the people at large upon
whose shoulders the blame rested. Twenty-four dead! and Scott-Turner one
of them. Seventeen of the number had been well-known and respected
citizens. The _Diamond Fields' Advertiser_ commented on the fight as a
"triumph" for British arms. This point was, to put it mildly, debatable.
The feeling uppermost in the mind of the plain man was that nothing had
been accomplished that could compensate for the loss of so many brave
men. The consoler who argued that the losses on the other side exceeded
ours did not console. Nor did the vapourings of him who prated of what
we, acting in conjunction with the Column, would presently give the
Boers. The disaster enkindled a distrust of the military which remained
inextinguishable to the end. Wherefore the need of risking so many
lives, at such a moment, with a Column outside, on its way to set us
free? That the critics--and they were legion--should search for motives
was inevitable; and the tactics of the military were promptly attributed
to a desire for glory (here below). This may have been an erroneous, a
wild conclusion; but it was jumped to with great satisfaction.
Theoretically, the idea of getting in touch with the approaching troops
was good; but it was a premature effort--how awfully premature we knew
at last. Our defenders were few enough to defend the perimiter of the
city. How were we to hold the positions we had sought to get possession
of? To this and much more (_after_ the event) the public demanded an
answer. They asked in vain; for under the "Resolute Government" of
Martial Law, public opinion is an Irishism.
The funerals made a most impressive spectacle. The troops and Volunteers
with the bands of their respective regiments headed the cortege. There
was profound sadness in the faces of the vast assemblage that crowded
the streets. The twenty-four coffins were lowered into the graves, amid
a solemn silence broken now and then by the Ministers of religion who
read the burial services. It was an awe-inspiring scene, that will be
long remembered in the Diamond City.
The signalling went on as usual in the evening. Heavy fighting, we were
told, had taken place at Modder River, with considerable loss on both
sides. That was all; it was enough; news of that nature was not
satisfying. The De Beers Directors assembled to hold their adjourned
meeting, and to adjourn it again. Mr. Rhodes acknowledged that he had
been wrong in his calculations. Everybody was wrong, but nobody except
Cecil played the candid friend.
Friday was peaceful; an opportune occasion for reviewing our losses. All
told, forty lives had been lost. The recent disaster brought down upon
the military authorities a chorus of adverse criticism. It had been
discovered, too, that it was not the _first_ disaster; and for the
losses sustained in the earlier sorties the Colonel and his advisers
were also condemned. This was hard on the military, whose conduct of
previous operations had been extolled by the men in the street who now
inveighed against it. There were, of course, fair-minded people who were
too honest not to remember this; but they could not _forget_ their meat
allowances; and they wrathfully connived at the hard sayings without
going so far as to join in their dissemination. But, indeed, what with
regrets, tragedies, dry bread, and indifferent dinners--their combined
effect was not to lift us high above ourselves (later on, the altitude
was better). Down at the railway station extensive preparations were
being made for the revivial of traffic. Hundreds of men were employed
laying down new rails, and widening the _terminus_--to provide space for
the miles of trams in the wake of the Column. The Royal Engineers,
accompanying the troops, were repairing the line as they advanced. Other
people, who knew better, had it that a new railroad through a circuitous
route was being made. This was asserted with a positiveness, a
clearness, as it were, of second sight that cowed all promptings of
common sense. But it was not of supreme importance by what route the
train came, if it only came soon. Not a few were indifferent as to
whether it ever came (in); they would be satisfied with a seat in a
truck going _out_. We were anxious to know what was going on in the
world. An intense longing for a glimpse of Stock Exchange quotations
existed in some quarters; others were dying to "back" horses; and there
were guileless people whose sorrows were epitomised in a sigh for a
letter, or two, (or a dozen) from home, and corresponding assurances
that all was well there. We speculated a good deal on the probable depth
of the piles of correspondence accumulating for each of us. The
letter-sorters were not enjoying their holidays; we hoped--we knew they
would soon end. Had we dreamt that they were to lengthen into another
seventy days, the dream would assuredly have killed us. But, thank
goodness, in the watches of the night our sleep was not haunted by the
spectral truth. Seventy _hours_ assimilated better with--our dreams.
There was the Column busy signalling and settling it all with the
Colonel. The Colonel was certainly a reticent man; he gave us precious
little _data_, to supplement our faith. But the _nearness_ of Methuen
was _data_ enough for us. It did not do, it was foolish when it was
useless, to be too curious. It was puzzling, to be sure, to watch the
movements of the Boers, or rather their lack of movement. That they saw
the signals and knew what to expect went without saying. And yet they
perversely showed no signs of running away. On the contrary, they kept
improving their defences and generally indicating that they had come to
stay. We liked the _hardihood_ of this attitude; but were on the whole
inclined to pity the poor beggars. Defiance, in the circumstances, could
only mean annihilation for them. Kimberley reasoned thusly: Kimberley
reasoned well.
Saturday made it still clearer that the ineffable enemy, so far from
being frightened, was obdurate yet. Large commandoes of Boers had joined
the besiegers during the night. All day long they toiled like Trojans,
digging trenches. At Oliphantsfontein they erected a new camp and made
their fortifications unassailable. We could only conclude that they
purposed making a stand. The fatuousness of such a course was clear to
us; for with the aid of the Relief Column we would presently be in a
position to attack the Boers from many sides; to hem them in; to cut off
retreat; and to kill or make prisoners of them all. It was a bold
conviction; we still viewed things through Napoleonic glasses.
It was stated that President Steyn was outside, to stimulate the
burghers with his presence and eloquence. The news was interesting, and
the hope was fairly general that no worse fate would be his than that of
a prisoner of war. There were also some particulars of the Modder River
fight; the Boers had been driven from their kopjes; hundreds had been
shot; thousands made prisoners; and whips of guns captured. This was not
quite a proper version of what happened at the Modder (it is
questionable whether we were ever made acquainted with the actual
facts); but we believed it all; it sounded well. One of the funny
features of the siege in its earlier stages was the readiness on the one
hand with which a practical community swallowed good news, however
false; and the stern disinclination evinced on the other to be "taken
in" by the truth when it chanced to leak out and happened to be
disagreeable.
Such was the condition of affairs when forty-nine long days had crept
by. As to the brightness of the immediate future no misgivings existed.
The days would soon shorten to their normal duration, and be all the
happier for the antecedent gloom. Relief could not in the nature of
things be very far away. Ah, no; it never was; that was the pity of
it--the irritant destined to deepen our disgust--to nourish our
discontent. At Mafeking they were spared at least the galling
consciousness of relief so near, and yet so far. The irritation,
however, was not to be felt yet. We looked confidently to an early
release--so confidently that the decadence of dinners did not distress
us. We considered it of relatively little consequence that provisions
were becoming scarce; they would last another fortnight "in a pinch," we
thought. As for luxuries, we talked of them, and promised shortly to
make up for lost time. The anticipated reunion between bread and butter
was a sustaining thought. The Column might be trusted to carry with it a
sufficiency of firkins to achieve that glorious end; and we were
meanwhile content to be fastidious in our choice of jams, and to be the
bane of our grocer's existence.